


Black Sky, White Sorrow

by overthemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthemoon/pseuds/overthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can’t sleep and he’s thinking about Sherlock’s laptop, that maybe Sherlock could have left some clue there about Moriarty. He’s trying to guess the password and suddenly an idea comes to mind. </p><p>  <i> John can’t breathe when the sky turns blacker than his mood and mind.  Night means lying in a bed without angry/sad violin music chasing the nightmares away; instead the crack of Sherlock’s body slamming against concrete echoes on an endless loop.  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Sky, White Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this gifset](http://sherlockgraham.tumblr.com/post/44545059569/)  
> [This Ficlet on Tumblr](http://overthemoonwriting.tumblr.com/post/50219208038/this-ficlet-on-ao3-if-youd-like-to-leave) Please reblog if you liked it. :)

John can’t breathe when the sky turns blacker than his mood and mind. Night means lying in a bed without angry/sad violin music chasing the nightmares away; instead the crack of Sherlock’s body slamming against concrete echoes on an endless loop. He lies inside scratchy generic coverlets for hours, tossing and turning and trying not to cry, because he is a soldier, dammit. John can’t afford to drown inside a swimming pool of his own tears.

A combination of “SHERLOCK!” and a faint memory of Irene’s melody drags John out of his bed tonight. John clutches his chest as his heart threatens to shudder out of his ribcage and drags himself to over to the desk. The apple and tea that were supposed to be his breakfast still sit there untouched, next to Sherlock’s bloodred laptop.

John slides his fingers over the laptop, opens the lid. The machine boots, and John twines his hands together, resting his elbows on the wooden desk. John sleepily blinks at the welcome screen, the last barrier between John and any of Sherlock’s secrets that John can reach. John can’t accept that Sherlock would just.

Leave.

John shivers as Moriarty’s ghostly memory whispers, “I will burn the heaart, out of you.” 

_You win, Moriarty._ John stares outside at the frozen stars. _Two hearts for the price of one. Was there a sale?_

John knows Sherlock didn’t bother keeping much on his computer; the mind palace is - was - much more convenient for daily knowledge. Whatever remains on Sherlock’s computer, Sherlock _must_ have left for John to find. One last note, just for his only friend.

If it was left for John to find, it has to be something John knows Sherlock thinks is important. John exhales the stolen night air from his lungs and tries to think. 

The work? _Don’t be obvious, John._

John flinches at the thought, as welcome as Sherlock’s scorn feels. It doesn’t feel like it’s only been... two weeks? John looks out the window at the lone streetlamp still flickering against the night. He’s only kept the laptop out of--

_“If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment.” Sherlock smiles at John and John calls him Amazing Fantastic Extraordinary and Sherlock looked away because Sherlock is used to Piss Off._

John won’t look at Sherlock’s computer, sips from the mug of cold tea. The bitter taste swamps John’s tongue and he frowns. But there’s no --

_“Sugar. You thought it was in the sugar.” John looks up from his breakfast at Sherlock. “You got it wrong.” Sherlock won’t admit to that. He asks “Sentiment?” over something as simple as a dog and John’s nose is still freshly imprinted with the scent of fear sweat drifting across from Sherlock’s side of the bed where he feels Sherlock not sleeping, where John doesn’t touch. Doesn’t dare._

John smells the flat’s scentless air and sets the mug down. There’s no sugar in the flat right now. He closes his eyes again. Was this how Sherlock had felt when Irene had left him that damned phone?

Besides, Sherlock didn’t crack that phone until he realized that Irene---

John opens his eyes and stares at the blinking cursor on the laptop screen. Irene’s password was Sher. John swallows to keep the bile and revulsion from escaping his throat.

John reaches across the keyboard with trembling hands and types four letters in.

J-O-H-N.

He taps the enter key. The laptop hums its unpleasantly happy tone and loads the desktop. John relaxes in relief/fear/exhaustion and stares at the small document in the middle of the screen. 

The document is titled: “Sorry.”

John closes his eyes and forces himself to take deep breathes to combat the squads of tears that threaten to march out of his eyes and tumble onto the soft surfaces of his clothes. His left hand begins trembling and it feels like John is the one falling this time. John does not get out of his tiny chair in 221b, but something him inside shatters and the angry sound of failed weightlessness hisses inside his ear.

He clicks the document open.

The document is blank.

John gazes at the cruel white screen, too exhausted to curse Sherlock. The cursor blinks on the blank document, beckoning for just a few more words. John looks down at the keyboard and twines his hands together to stop his left from shaking. He’s done the last blogpost. There’s nothing new to write.

John exhales and slowly types out, “What I said there, at the cemetery. I meant it.” He saves the document. Closes the laptop. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/Crying in comments/Kudos sincerely appreciated.  
> I want to know what people think. Everything anything just please talk to me!


End file.
